Mirror, Mirror
by Fan Fan Girl
Summary: One-shot. Pedoblame. That’s the fairytale ending, he thinks, not quite disillusioned yet. But one thing’s for sure, there will be no more swathes of light or impish delights... just an inferno consuming him again.


M i r r o r o r r i M

.

This is not his first time meeting her, indeed, they have met many times before, she accompanying her dreary grandfather and he eager to end the dreadful useless audience, but this time his interest is caught, and for once he really _sees_ her, an imp whose eyes gleam with secrets of their own, whose inexplicable smile captivates him even across the expanse of the room. Perhaps it is because this is the first time she has come _here,_ to his throne room, where his towering columns of gold reflect smoothly on her face, glinting in her eyes... maybe it is from the familiar way in which she saunters in, alone.

She has grown up so much since he saw her last—no longer is she the sickly, spoiled, blue-haired child he remembers, but a slender ripple of washed-out sunlight, like the glow of a shallow reflection in a pool. She is a slight and lovely creature, mostly colorless save for her scarlet eyes (which give him a twinge of excitement in meeting). Her face looks impossibly pure, he notes with a flash of awe, her skin lacking a single smudge of make-up.

As the girl walks, her legs shift and push out beneath her dress, and she swish-swish-swishes her way forward. Despite the gentle swing of her hips, her torso is immobile, withdrawn, taut—she carries herself like a lady, though the slimness of her chest and legs suggest a boyish kind of immaturity. Before he catches himself, his gaze begins to slide down the slope of her shoulders—

—But then he does catch himself; somewhere along the contours of her arm he realizes that he has been staring for far too long. _Surely_ she has noticed his gaze by now. He freezes at the thought, proud man that he is, and feels a morsel of shame at his suggestive attention. The Emperor of Alfard is by far the most powerful man in the world. He needs not waste time looking at a _little girl_, however pretty she may be.

As she nears the throne and dips a low curtsy, he assures himself that she is just another guest.

O  
|

And yet here he is, leaning over the table and stretching his hand to reach the handle of the teapot, his wide sleeves dragging; when he clasps the wooden handle, he pulls his weak wrist back across the table. In recent years his joints have begun to hurt so much (such dreadful, tedious pain) but he pours a steady stream of liquid into his teacup anyway, coquettishly aware of the gaze of the lady across the table.

Now her presence is a common thing. An invitation for tea and a pleasant afternoon secured her loyalty months ago, and everafter she has been a treasured guest of the palace. She is his entertainment now; she exists for him—and only him, he likes to think—and he takes such pleasure in her companionship. Skies, what a change from the company he usually keeps! Her graceful spirit and calm mind invigorate him so.

His sole enjoyment now is looking at her face, hearing her voice. Sometimes he tries to banter with her—its does not always work; she is like a pretty house pet in some respects, nice to look at but none too engaging—yet usually settles for a quiet chat. He asks her quite often what it is like to be young.

She laughed at him the first time, trying to be coy.

He played along, gathering air from the depths of his lungs, compressing it and pushing it out—he laughed, too (_you see_).

She is usually they topic of conversation, because he wants to know all about her, how she turned into the delicate sprite he is beginning to adore. He is not one for studies of the mind or people, but now her life and being fascinates her, and he wants nothing more than to uncover her secret. How she grew up, how she developed into such a fine young lady, what gave her the ability to charm men and women alike with a flutter of her eyelashes. To himself, he sometimes admits an ever-so-slight obsession with her, but he is careful to maintain a "professional relationship" with the girl in the presence of others.

His new friend is very special to him, so he treats her very well indeed.

O  
|

He smiles to himself as she snakes her arm through his, and gives her arm a fatherly pat. She doesn't need his protection or his comfort, but she leans closer to him anyway.

For around them gather a small company of the Empire's best soldiers and most loyal officers, headed of course by its leading general, Fadroh. They stand at attention, eyes locked to the space in front of them, bodies rigid. Fadroh stands at the fore, slightly more at ease, as he is a personal retainer of the Emperor, and when the pair draw near he places a fisted hand across his chest, bowing deeply to the lady.

As he rises, he glances almost imperceptibly from Geldoblame to his companion to the way they are linked. An inevitable look of understanding passes over Fadroh's face, and then his military training takes over and he is utterly detached from the situation. This pleases Geldoblame tremendously. He relishes the scandal, a feeling so nostalgic to him now. To have people talking about him again!

He can only imagine what the soldiers are thinking, and they show even less reaction than Fadroh. He smirks and strokes the girl's arm again, leading her across the painted stone.

"Have you figured it out yet, Melodia? I've prepared a surprise for you, one I'm sure you'll find very convenient." He chuckles to himself, and feels the gaze of both his little toys. "I imagine it must be such a _hassle_ for the Duke to find attendants to chaperone your visits to and from the Empire. Is it not true that the Duchy of Mira does not have the resources that the great empire of Alfard has? So, concerned as I am, I've taken the necessary measures to lessen your duke's burden. General Fadroh?"

As the commander's name is called, once again he sweeps another bow. "At your service, my Lord."

"You see this man? He will accompany you with his men in your travels between Mira and the Empire. This special task force is to ensure your safety at all times. After all, you are one of my dearest guests. You deserve my utmost hospitality, Melodia."

His eyes slide to the side; still, the soldiers' faces are emotionless. He turns smugly to Melodia next, and is pleasantly surprised. Her nails have sunk into the cloth of his sleeves; her pale fingers are rigid. She is intent on the general and his small troop of men, and her eyes are fixed and glittering. She must be excited to receive such honor as her own little division from the Emperor of Alfard, he thinks to himself. He will make it worthwhile to her.

"Oh, Emperor Geldoblame," she oozes, her voice saccharine and high. "All this for me? I don't know what to say!"

"You don't have to say anything, dear. Just visit often, won't you?"

"With your military forces for protection, my Emperor? I must visit you _all the time_ _now_." She gives his arm a squeeze and smiles subtly up at him. He grins back, pleased with the devious curve of her crimson lips, the glitter of intrigue in her eyes.

.

"Melodia, tell me... What do you do when you are not in my Empire?"

The question lingers in the warm night air. They sit by a window, enjoying the small breeze that flows through. Below them Mintaka spreads for miles around, glittering like a slat of gold, iridescent next to the expanse of blue that hangs over it. He feels a sad twinge in his chest, looking at the landscape that's been with him all his life. Sometimes, he wishes there weren't a world beyond the Empire to separate them.

.

He slouches in front of his bedroom mirror, slowly mining cream from a metal dish. The wetness gathers in his fingers, moist and thick, cool against his skin; he lifts his hand to his face and sighs.

But he pauses to frown, looking in the mirror. The man on the other side is brown and thick, and most unsettling to look at; a dreadful snarl of ginger curls is draped over his head, his eyes are like small black marbles.

He purses his lips as he dabs the milky clump onto his face, covering the four corners—his chin, forehead, and right and left cheekbones—and after a final dot to cap his nose, he grimly begins to knead it in. What a mess he's in now. The years have taken their toll on his precious face, and now the mere sight of a mirror is enough to bring embarrassed heat to his cheeks.

Moisture sinks into him, cooling him and giving him a distraction from the battlefield of his skin, the streaming sun, his weary eyes.

He pauses, and his head begins to sink into his hands. He feels tired... he _is_ tired. A servant knocks on the door and the sound echoes emptily in his room; he grits his teeth, feeling another headache creep into his mind.

"Emperor Geldoblame, your guest today will be the heiress to the Duchy of Mira. Shall I..."

"Not yet." _Damnable servants_. "Leave me be...for now." He slouches farther into his seat, clutching his hair and breathing into his nightgown; his stomach burgeons against the side of the table with each inhalation. Retreating footsteps sound outside the door and his breathing calms.

_What is wrong with me? There is something wrong now, something wrong... when did I start to get this way?_

O  
|

The sun is setting over the Imperial Fortress. The walls of gold are fading to yellow...now gray...a final, porous black.

The emperor strides out of the front entrance with his entourage and lady; outside the now familiar small collection of soldiers awaits them, and Lady Melodia, at her usual place by the emperor's side, lets her arms slip away so she may join her chaperones.

He feels a strange loneliness as she finds her place in the company and turns to wave good-bye. No longer are the troops of novelty, but a toy of her own. Look, Fadroh sidles up next to Melodia and bows to her—it is not the deep, respectful bow of their first meeting, but a gesture of friendly greeting. He feels a twinge of jealousy in watching the general take her arm, cradling that fragile hand that he has spent many an hour admiring.

But at the same time, as the unit protectively encircles the girl (a far cry from that first night, when they made only a loose net around her) he is pleased. For is not another's admiration of the girl an indication of his own good taste? They have grown so very attached to her, just as he has.

Now the red and gold skies of Alfard are turning deep blue, and the clouds vanish into white mist. The darkness settles into the quiet plaza of the fortress, and as his lady retreats, her face is captured by the night.

O  
|

He leans desperately over his dressing table, dabbing make-up on his face, powdering his leathery skin. _Soon I shall be off to another tiresome meeting again_, he thinks, _but this one _should_ be interesting at the very least_. Giacomo will be reporting on his mission in Mira, while Fadroh is scheduled to describe End Magnus retrieval operations in their very own Azha. He wonders vaguely if Melodia has any idea of what's going on right under her nose. Dear empty-headed girl probably hasn't a clue.

Just as she comes into his mind, he notices a sparkle of light in a mirror propped up beside him. He glances at it, but what he sees there startles him into near immobility.

There in the glass, where his own reflection should be, for a brief moment, barely a second—is he imagining things?—stares back Melodia. The shadow of a passing airship speeds through the room and she is gone.

.

"Oh, I practice horseback riding, painting, and playing music," she laughs. "I have to be an accomplished lady if I want to make a good heir for Grandfather. He likes it when I paint especially. I just love to wander around Parnasse or Balancoire (those are my favorite cities in Mira—but shush, don't tell anyone I have favorites!) and just look and sketch and visit with people. You don't know how fun it is to get out of that horrid mansion every once in a while. People would never think it of me, but... I have needs too!"

.

"You know, Darling, you remind me of me sometimes."

But no, that isn't right, something's wrong . . .

. . . _something's_ _wrong—!_

.

It is night, and the gentle glow of his lamp reveals that he is slumped over a pink cushion in his bedroom, body perfectly still. Each flicker of flame casts shadows on his face; opposite him the lamplight skitters across a wet painting. He stares dully at the shifting, grinning image across from him.

The fiction looks so damned self-satisfied, in his ugly pinks and blues and golds.

.

It is evening, and the sunlight is drawing away from his room, and could it be that death is coming too? But no, it is just his imagination again—soon the End Magnus will be his, and he will live, live forever...

He wonders when the servants will come in to fetch him for the meeting. What a fright they'll have when they come in. He couldn't help the mess, though.

The sun, sometimes, gets so very hot.

He turns his head to see the fiery bastard sinking down below the line of the horizon. It glows yellow tonight, selfishly pulling all the brilliant colors out of the Alfard clouds. Night draws near, and the sky pales.

His windows are thrown open and a strong breeze blows through—a rare event in Alfard—but it no longer carries the scents of wood and grass and oil that he grew up with – but of smoke. White smog sneaks through the window and curls fitfully on his ceiling. He watches it fade away.

Finally he heaves a sigh and sits up. The pink carpet below begs him to continue resting there, but with a few grunts, groans, and a strain on his knees he pushes off of it to climb to his feet. He wavers slightly as he stands, but he will not fall. As he steadies himself, his head sinks and air hisses slowly between his lips, but he believes he is fine now. He begins to trudge though the paper scattered on the carpet below to get to the open window. Glass shutters creak irritably in the wind (so irritably) so he catches them when he draws near, and then he looks down the side of the building. The rocking horse is still smashed in pieces at the bottom; he supposes another will have to be bought, if not for his sake then for Melodia's. He shuts the window and locks it, then he shuffles back through the scraps of paper on the floor.

Waning light shows that his desk, which once leaned against the wall, has been turned over and the spine of the picture book that once sat on top has been broken. With great effort he bends over, his back straining; he puffs and captures the book. Straining upwards painfully, he fingers the binding and begins to flip through loose pages. The pictures are old and familiar to him, and for a moment he is caught up in the past, reliving a time when the images meant something to him.

Then he drops the book on the desk, faintly disgusted. He hears splitting, but it means nothing to him now. He's had enough of looking back, of sentimentality and nostalgia.

In one last journey across the room littered with cosmetics and shredded fabric and paper, he heads over to his bed. Along the way he stoops to pick up a piece of torn paper. He pushes some of the broken glass and limp flowers off of the mattress and sits down, examining the scrap.

It is a fragment of the painting he made several weeks ago, of his face as it used to be: young, beautiful, flawless. His hair, a crown of golden-red waves; his lips, red and sweet. Though the painting, now torn to pieces, is a poor imitation. In his lack of skill he created the insufferable smirk on his self-portrait's face... yes, that is it. It was a clumsy slip of the brush.

He sneers all the same at his own vain endeavor and throws the scrap back on the carpet. His fingers bury into his hair and he rubs his face with his palms—why does he do it? why does he compete? His make-up smears; he no longer cares.

He too used to be loved by all those around him. He too used to be young and beautiful. And in the end, those damned Magnus are just another way to return to the past—but is that all?

No—far from it. He wants control. He wants at once to break the mirror and to bend it. He wants to show to the reflection his true face—how he is _supposed_ to be. What he is meant to be. But mirrors break so easily (he looks briefly to the pretty shards of glass that litter the bottom of his crimson-watered pool) and he doesn't want to break his world, just twist it a little—a little more. Just so that he can show his true self, not this clown he has grown up to be.

Once before he was lost, rejected, but he changed, changed so that he could get what he wanted. Back then he was so naïve, thinking that it was fine for him to be the one controlled; he hates that version of himself for being weak and ruining everything. He used to want to be loved by others—now, he realizes, now as Emperor he has the power to love and cherish and control and twist and bend and ruin her, spoil her, slay her—slay him—slay the mirror.

He can have what he wants now; he's come this far. What should he do? Now that he can have his eternal life and dreamed of future and ghosts from the past, what should he do with them? Shall he choke her? Maybe. Shall he touch her face? Likely. He will have her. He will have all he wants.

And as he sits on his bed, cradling his head, chuckling, seized by a million wild thoughts, an emotion he thought had died long ago overtakes him. He feels a sudden warmth encapsulate him and his heart begins to ache sweetly. His eyelids become heavy, but he can still see the scrap on the carpet clearly. He understands now, as his body begins to tremble, that it isn't vanity—it's just love.

O  
|

At last, it is night again, and a breeze his stirring through his room. Things have been tidied up by the servants, the broken furniture replaced, and all that remains as proof of the struggle with himself is a bandage covering his left hand. Melodia comments on it, and he tells him how he burned his hand when he splashed some hot water on himself earlier that evening. She smiles, and he can tell that his clumsiness amuses her.

It is strange how once he sees her, all of his murderous thoughts die again; now he just wants to bask in her youth. He notices for the hundredth time how pretty (s)he is, with herhis red lips and pale skin. Tonight h—? hair has a different sheen in the moonlight. Geldoblame can't help but admire

_that divine creature's_

easy

elegance.

_I can return_, he thinks... _I can still relive the past._

As he stands next to his guest by the window, he turns to take h-his hand. The youth looks up, light playing in his dark eyes.

The older man swallows. "Are you tired? Come to my bed and have a little sit in my lap, Geldoblame."

...He came.

* * *

A/N: For Katana's request on the "What Would You Like to See More Of?" board for MOAR GELDOBLAME. Also dedicated to Michael Jackson, may the Good Lord rest his soul.


End file.
